The snow of Moscow
relented to an April thaw:
A rose--
with a blush of red--
pushed its way out
and blossomed
without reserve.
Bella.
Oh sweetness
of the Motherland
who wrote us
through the freedom
of her heart's desire.
Now you rest
in the womb of a
Tchaikovsky suite
And the flower you became
lay as a reminder
on your grave
for all that you gave.
Spacibo.
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